Slack Slacker’s Mission Impossible in Mosul
Dear: KLB
Please be advised, it’s with the greatest reluctance I’m revealing the true explanation for my absence today, since doing so could potentially place both our lives at risk. So be warned, it is critical that you keep what you’re about to read in the strictest of confidence. That said, considering I left the office so abruptly after promising to stay late to prepare office interns Brie and Arie for Friday’s companywide audit and the pressure you’d face because I failed to so, I felt compelled to keep you as informed as possible. After all, that’s what friends are for.
As you may recall, it was 4:37 PM when you left my cube to round up the two newbies for a full orientation on how to review, analyze and document any discrepancies concerning executive expenses for further review by company bean counters. Excited for the opportunity, I immediately called my best bud Slick and cancelled a planned meet for Tequila shots and free buffalo wings to celebrate the reopening of our favorite spot on the upper West Side of Manhattan. You remember, the one set ablaze during the Halloween weekend. Unfortunately, it was 4:51 PM when two burly chaps appeared at my desk brandishing CIA credentials, telling me I was to come with them. I had no choice, they had guns, too.
They ignored my questions during the elevator ride down to the lobby. They ignored my protest as they dragged me from the building. They ignored my growing fears during the 45 minute unmarked black suburban ride to a seemingly abandoned airstrip. And they ignored my screams of WTF was going on as three other unmarked black suburbans rolled up behind us. And I remained clueless, until the rear door of the last arriving unmarked black suburban opened. It was John O. Brennan, director of the CIA himself. Flanked by six heavily armed agents, Director Brennan was escorted toward a small windowless structure nearby. I was instructed to follow.
Once inside, director Brennan was joined by the head of Homeland Security, Jey Johnson and the FBI’s James Comey. This was big, I thought, and I knew, if I, Slack Slacker was being hounded like this, it had to have something to do with Doobie, my estranged radicalized Yorkie. If you remember, Doobie went berserk after he gravitated to the dark side. As a jihadist for hire and all around scum-bag, Doobie’s been suspected of and linked to drug smuggling and human trafficking along with horrific war crimes and crimes against humanity all over the world. Oh yeah, did I forgot to mention lewd conduct in the presence of children as well. Every international security service and law enforcement entity on the planet has a standing kill order on Doobie. Still, what in God’s name did these people want with me, was the question burning a hole in my head.
When seated at the table with the others, it was director Brennan who took the lead. In a very calm voice, he said, “Mr. Slacker, please relax.” “We know you’ve not been in contact with your dog, Doobie, for more than a year, so we know you have no idea where he is or what he’s been up to.” “But fortunately, we do”, chimed in Johnson, with a far less calming tone. “He’s back in Iraq and he’s causing trouble. We’ve been tracking Doobie’s activities for the last nine months. And when we found Doobie’d hooked up with an elite Shiite militia crew to creep into Mosul and take out Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi, leader of the Islamic State, on the down-low, we were okay with that. We thought we’d cut him some slack. No pun intended. But as per Doobie’s profile, we should’ve known he couldn’t be trusted.” 
They went on the explain, satellite surveillance confirmed Doobie had led a team of the world’s most lethal killing technicians deep into Mosul’s urban center, silently slitting throats of ISIS fighters along the way. They showed me the video, too. Doobie looked crazy. Since I’d seen him last, he’d lost an eye and had it replaced with a black marble. And he’d lost his left paw too, but it was replaced with a crude, rusty, hook-like prosthetic. Still, Doobie was a force to avoid. According to Brennan, the mission was going according to plan, until Doobie “secretly” answered a call on his cell. The NSA was listening. 
When Doobie was overheard negotiating a deal to sellout his crew to ISIS for 10 million euros, to be used as human shields, they knew it wouldn’t be long before Doobie’d be selling all the intelligence he’d been gathering while embedded with the other attacking forces. That fear was confirmed when unbeknownst to his team, Doobie signaled well hidden ISIS fighters and his trap was sprung. Within seconds Doobie’s guys were in zip tie restraints, black hoods and being marched single file into a nearby bullet riddled shack. Doobie was gettin’ paid!
Because Doobie knows everything ISIS needs to know in order to make the retaking of Mosul the bloodiest military campaign the world has seen in decades, U.S. military intelligence was left with only two options. Option one would be to take Doobie out with a drone strike once and for all. Option two would be to send me to Iraq with a counter offer of 20 million euros to finish what he started. I argued for option one, but CIA director Brennan reminded everyone at the table, multiple drone strikes had failed to kill Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi, so there was no guarantee they’d get Doobie that easily. And if they missed, the last thing Homeland Security and the FBI wanted, was to have a pissed off radicalized Yorkie slipping back into the U.S. motivated by revenge. I lost the argument.
Within an hour, I was on a military transport plane headed to another undisclosed location for some brief weapons training, basic Arabic and given a few suicide tablets just in case things didn’t go according to plan. ISIS is legendary when it comes to torture and my handlers felt I should have the option, when the pain became too much to handle. Four hours later, I was on my way.
Since I’m certain you’re aware of the sensitive nature of this correspondence and its obvious national security concerns, I implore you to keep what has been revealed above just between the two of us. If you’re wise, you’ll advise H.R. you authorized this free personal day as reward for all my hard work. I’m told, if all goes well with this “Mission Impossible”, I should return to the office bright and early Monday morning.
Sincerely, Slack Slacker